


Services Rendered and Rites Observed

by Sovin



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Barricade Day, Canon Era, Hair Brushing, Hair Washing, Service, Unresolved Romantic Tension, before the barricades
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-04
Updated: 2014-06-04
Packaged: 2018-02-03 11:04:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1742471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sovin/pseuds/Sovin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The night before Lamarque's funeral, Grantaire offers to do Enjolras another service. He accepts. Not technically canon uncompliant.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Services Rendered and Rites Observed

**Author's Note:**

> Obligatory disclaimer.
> 
> So, there are a few Icelandic sagas where, before the men rode out for one purpose or another, their wives washed and cut their hair. Very ritualistic. Clearly the only logical thing to do was anachronistically transpose this onto 1830s France. Or, the one where Grantaire washes Enjolras' hair. Not technically e/R, but the potential is there.
> 
> Feel free to come chat over on [tumblr](http://www.sovinly.tumblr.com), I always like chatting.

There came a knock at the door of Enjolras’ rooms, causing him to startle a little, barely avoiding knocking over his ink. He frowned, setting down his quill and abandoning the draft of his letter, rebuttoning his waistcoat over his shirt as he went to answer the door. He had not expected company, thinking to take the last night before the funeral to himself, seeking solitude rather than camaraderie. Enjolras half expected to see Combeferre, or perhaps Courfeyrac, come on some last minute errand.

Instead, he found Grantaire, somehow, surprisingly, still steady on his feet. He stood, not straight and full with the wild bravado before his errand to the Barrière du Maine, but with some amount of confidence, but also an air of supplication in his drawn and lined face, eyes tender and melancholy.

“Grantaire,” he greeted, perhaps not quite stiffly. Things had been tense between them for quite a while, and he hoped that Grantaire had not come to remark on the futility of their fight, not in any mood for his skepticism or biting comments.

Instead, he bowed his head a little, preserving some quiet dignity Enjolras had not thought him capable of, even with the hunch of his shoulders and the disarray of his appearance. "Enjolras."

"May I be of assistance?" he asked, not quite coolly, but perhaps a little distant, still standing in the curve of the open doorway, as though warding off Grantaire's entrance. He wondered whether or not it should make him feel any guilt.

Grantaire looked up, then, his eyes clear and, while perhaps a touch wet, were not glassy, full of a deep and abiding sorrow, stripped of any bitterness or revelry. He did not know what to make of it, feeling his mouth twist in a slight frown that made Grantaire take a fraction of a step back. "Ah, I intrude. It was not my intent. I would only ask again to do you a service."

"Would you?" Enjolras asked, astonished, and he could feel the sneer curl his lip even as he tried to rein back the acridity once more, catching Grantaire's eyes with his and holding them steadily. "You said yourself, you are wild, and will not be serious. I consented to try you; I will not again."

But in a moment, he sighed, fatigue washing over him in a wave as he rubbed the bridge of his eyes. He had excitement for the coming day, and hope, but the exhaustion of the run up to it had bitten into his bones, and he knew he misstepped the moment he saw the way Grantaire's face twisted, shamed and hurt and already passing to a false, harsh smile.

"I beg pardon," Enjolras forced himself to say, relaxing the line of his shoulders and dropping his hand. "It has been a long night, and I spoke ill. What service would you offer?"

Grantaire rocked back a little on the well-worn heels of his boots, loose hairs fluttering about his face as he did, but he met Enjolras' gaze this time. "You spent too much time in the practice shooting, so Joly mentioned to me, and have bruised your shoulder. I thought, perhaps, you might want for someone to help with your hair."

Startled, Enjolras reached up thoughtlessly, his fingertips brushing the ends of the lowest curls, his hair still tied back with a neat ribbon. It was true it could use the attention, dry dirt from the hot air and dusty streets of Paris clinging to the strands, and that his shoulder still ached faintly, yet the offer was unexpected. "You would offer?"

"I would," Grantaire said, and his gaze was gentle, still wrecked with some misery, and his mouth tightened at the corners. "I understand it must not be your priority this evening, but it is no secret among our friends that you have a distaste for dishevelment. It is a task not even I can fail in."

He hesitated, uncertain if the intimacy was one he desired to allow, but very well, he could offer peace before whatever the morning brought, if not absolution. "Then I shall consent to try you again – I could stand to wash it. Come in."

Enjolras' flat was neat, tidily kept, if only because tomorrow could go many different ways, and Grantaire only glanced around perfunctorily even as he stepped in as if stepping onto sacred ground, removing his coat.

"Have you a suitable basin and chair?" Grantaire asked, and Enjolras nodded.

Strange, how this could strike nervousness through him in a way that the possibility of death did not. He spoke little, letting Grantaire set the room to his needs while he went to warm some small amount of water for the task. And stranger still, to stand in this room with Grantaire, their waistcoats set to the side, the other man's sleeves rolled up above his elbows and Enjolras' hair now falling limply around his shoulders, ravaged by the heat and damp of the evening air. It felt too intimate for this man he hardly knew even after such time.

Yet Grantaire was focused in a way that Enjolras had never seen, lacking the loud and flashy daring of before, mouth curved in a serious bow and eyes too attentive. He spoke little either, only to ask permission or to request one thing or another, waiting for Enjolras to settle in the chair. The light was still strong, too soon for candles, but late enough in the day that the rooms were warm and cozily lit, on the slow and steady path to darkness.

It was in the faint lengthening of shadows that Grantaire asked once more before gathering Enjolras' blond curls gently in his hand, touch so light that Enjolras could hardly feel it. Still silent, Grantaire dampened the ends, slowly guiding Enjolras to lean back, the angle a touch awkward but not uncomfortable, until he could go no further.

Grantaire's hands were large, and often shook when he was sober or anywhere near, but they seemed steady enough tonight, gently cupping water and pouring it to finish wetting Enjolras' hair. Though warm, it felt good, pleasing after the stickiness of a long day of working, and he settled a little more, some tension he had left unnoticed fading from his spine, and he closed his eyes.

A strange sensation, to feel another’s hands in his hair, to feel Grantaire's hands in his hair, so delicate in each touch as not to tug, carefully working loose dirt and dust and remnants of gun smoke. Stranger still, to feel the light pressure of Grantaire's fingertips working close to his scalp, rubbing small circles that eased away the headache that had been building for a day.

Enjolras did not sigh, did not make a sound, but he did settle, oddly relaxed and oddly comfortable. It was a welcome distraction from the difficult letter he had been struggling against, and Grantaire was as good as his word. He approached the task with dedication and intent, never once overstepping a bound or rushing to finish. And he stayed silent, not giving himself over to a flight of speech, rambling as was his wont, but simply allowing the quiet to settle between them, something of a reverence in it. At that, Enjolras had to wonder - what had been so different at the Barrière du Maine?

Had it simply felt a game to Grantaire, then? Or perhaps it was a task taken up in a moment of bluster, a response to Enjolras' ill temper he'd had no intent to follow through? Or had he approached it with this same sincerity only to fail, as he so often seemed to when he left their sides? What might Enjolras have seen if he had been only a little later, or a little earlier?

Hardly worth asking, now, he thought, and felt a weariness that struck deeply. It was soothed away by the press of Grantaire’s callused fingertips against his temples, receding once more into the vague collection of questions and anxieties best left for after the barricades.

After a few moments more, and Grantaire tipped Enjolras’ head up, reaching for the pitcher of water to rinse his hair, touch still inordinately gentle. It still struck him as peculiar, Grantaire’s silence. He was used to loudness, to exuberance and gossip; the other man seemed always to be moving, unless sleeping off a fit of drunkenness. Yet, for the evening, he seemed sober and somber, ceding his noise to Enjolras’ quiet reservation. For a man who practiced such sports with such enthusiasm, his hands were careful.

Even as he used a cloth to soak up most of the water, he did not pull, allowing Enjolras to work away more of the dampness while he emptied the basin and pitcher, restoring them to their usual places and returning with Enjolras’ brush in hand.

“Will you allow me?” Grantaire asked, still more pensive than subdued.

Enjolras had never much liked others brushing his hair, though, granted, the opinion was formed largely on a nursemaid who had yanked the brush against his curls until he’d cried, but the one time he had allowed Courfeyrac to do it for him had not gone badly. All the same, the ache of rifle recoil ached deeply in his shoulder, and Grantaire’s touch had been remarkably considerate. No one had ever accused him, either, of doing things by half, and so he nodded. “If you are familiar.”

“I am,” Grantaire replied, moving to stand behind him, taking the now soaked cloth and unwinding it from around Enjolras’ damp curls. His strokes were long and smooth, never tugging against knots but simply working them free, running the brush through his hair section by section. It was only at length that he broke the silence, keeping the brush in a steady, even pull. “This is a good brush. Boar bristle?”

“Mm-hm,” Enjolras agreed, nodding a touch. “My mother insisted.”

“A good choice,” Grantaire said, and fell silent again, brushing Enjolras’ hair until it was glossy, but not so much that it started to fluff and dry out, the feel of it surprisingly soothing and easy, the light just starting to die down as the shadows slid their way across the floor in the silence. It felt, almost, to have the weight of ritual, as though Grantaire were conducting funerary rites rather than a service. Lightly, he ran his fingers through once more, freeing any loose hairs before stepping back, setting down Enjolras’ brush. “Is it satisfactory?”

Enjolras reached up on instinct, hair soft and silky beneath his fingers, with a sheen it hadn’t had, a touch neglected of late. He didn’t quite smile, nothing more than a faint easing at the corners of his mouth, and looked to Grantaire as he rose. “It is. As you said, it was not the most needful task of the night, but all the same appreciated.”

“As I said,” and here Grantaire’s mouth twitched up at the corner with a touch of his usual humor, even as he replaced his waistcoat and shirtsleeves, “I would even black your boots. It was a small task, but gladly done.”

He nodded, accepting the gesture for what it was and amenable to the peace, as fragile and tentative as it was. Grantaire was not a man to indoctrinate republicans, perhaps, but earnest at least in his friendships.

“And now I will leave you to your tasks.” Grantaire’s smile was easy, but quiet, a little subdued, something aching and disconsolate in his eyes before he turned to leave. “Good evening, Enjolras.”

His hand shot out, Enjolras catching Grantaire’s arm, meeting his eyes steadily when he turned in surprise. “Thank you, Grantaire.”

That made him smile again, softer still, something around his eyes easing. “It was but a little service, Enjolras, though you are welcome all the same.”

Ever off balance with Grantaire, who confused him and vexed him with his contradictions and shaded speech, Enjolras simply nodded again. “And will you come, in the morning?”

And there, the twinge of bitterness and doubt that plagued him, but Grantaire only gently pulled free, a touch of defeat but nothing caustic in his tone. “Have you not learned? If you call, I will come. I know there is no use to dissuade you from your course, and my feet begin to itch – I do not stay in one place for long. I would not impose upon you.”

“Good evening, then, Grantaire,” Enjolras said, softer and more cordial than his greeting had been, unsure what to make of the man’s words, as muddled and confusing as ever.

“Good evening, Enjolras,” Grantaire replied, nodding to him before turning to go once more, replacing the door behind him. He started to hum, and Enjolras could hear it as he went down the stairs, retreating into softness and fading to nothing.

Frowning slightly, bewildered but not, on the whole, displeased, he sighed, returning his chair to its proper place. It was growing later, and darker, and his letters awaited, so Enjolras retreated to his desk, lighting candles to see by, pausing only to gather his hair back from his shoulders, downy under his fingers, and shook his head, ever thoughtful. The stillness and the respectful quiet remained, hardly broken for the scratch of his pen.


End file.
